Sherlock and the Shadow
by Stellaaar
Summary: An AU Fusion with Peter Pan. Sherlock gets to know the strange shadow in his sitting room.


Sherlock was startled awake by a loud percussive sound in his bedroom.

He'd been dreaming of something lovely—salty ocean spray against his face, and the jovial song of a violin played in time to the lap of waves; a place or thing long forgotten—and it ebbed away from him as he sat up, scanning the darkness for the intrusion.

Everything seemed to be as neatly in order as he'd left it before sleep: the stack of painstakingly arranged scientific texts on his bedside table under the lamp still artfully balanced; the doors of his wardrobe neatly folded together as they should have been; his dresser and its mirror stagnant in the corner as they always were; the crisp lines of tomorrow's suit still draped lovingly over the stuffed chair by the window; but there—the window was shut, and Sherlock was absolutely certain that he'd fallen asleep with it open.

He always did, after all.

Narrow feet slipped from beneath the covers, shuffling over the floor to find cotton slippers in the dark before slipping into them and padding silently to the window. His eyes traced the familiar frame, the cracks in the paint and dents in the wood as well known to him as the hammer of his heart beneath his ribs, but he found nothing amiss, no marks that hadn't been there earlier in the evening. Long fingered hands eased it back open with careful consideration, the pane sticking in a comforting way at the halfway mark, and Sherlock flipped the latch firmly before stepping back and watching a moment to be sure it didn't slide.

It didn't. The window sat obediently, half open, as it always did.

Curious.

Sherlock took a last furtive glance around the four walls of his bedroom, and still finding nothing, decided that it was an odd singularity and nothing more. He sighed and stretched in the dark before deciding that since he was already up and about, he might as well do something with it, before plucking his blue dressing gown from its hook on the back of the door and slipping it on over his tee shirt and plaid bottoms. The door whispered on its hinges as he let himself out through the living room and into the kitchen.

He filled the kettle and replaced it on the stand, flicking it on with barely an afterthought, shifting on his feet in the chill of the flat before going to crouch before the fireplace, feeding kindling into the hearth as he stirred banked coals back to life with the iron poker.

It was a chilly early morning in March, and Sherlock had never had the necessary body fat required to feel comfortable with winter-turned-spring. He always found himself bundling up more than usual, lighting fires, curling with his work under a blanket on the sofa not to be disturbed…

There was a loud slam as his bedroom door shut of its own accord.

Narrowed eyes flashed, searching the gloom for an intruder, fingers gripping the poker in his hand more tightly. It was defensible enough, he thought, sliding his left foot wide to turn so that he was crouched with his back facing the wall and not the open sitting room. He was strong, if slender, and could easily handle any intruder _stupid_ enough to try housebreaking at 221B Baker Street.

But for all he held his breath, waiting, nothing was there, and nothing else happened. Perhaps it was just the newly opened window, and errant breeze slamming the door—it was certainly possible, even probable—but somehow the race of Sherlock's pulse disbelieved the hypothesis.

He waited another moment, and it was only when he had half-risen from his crouch that _that which did not belong_ made itself known.

Sherlock was surprised, eyes widening as the foggy shape slipped from the darkness by his door, gaining stark definition as it slid into the firelight with a cautious gait. It's legs spilled across the floor at a rakish angle before throwing muscled calves, thighs, soft hips, and a wide chest attached to strong arms onto the wall before the fireplace. Its head was a vague shape, no more distinct than the impression of ears and a spiky brush of short fringe sticking out, and not taller than the mantle by much.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock was impossibly curious, cocking his head at an angle to study the figure on his wall, its posture cautious for all that it didn't seem to mind breaking into a stranger's home.

Sherlock had lost his own shadow long ago—it had been far too curious to be contained, and Sherlock had been far too intrigued by it to try—it had simply slipped away from him one day in his youth and never returned, off to have grand adventures or something, whether Mummy or Mycroft had approved or not. (They hadn't, incidentally. They'd spent years adhering it to him through different means, and Mycroft had been frustrated where Mummy had been saddened, that it had escaped never to return home.) Most people's shadows were happy to stay put, but Sherlock had never been ordinary or particularly well controlled, and his shadow had taken after him in those respects.

Still, he'd never expected to see someone else's shadow standing in his sitting room, all on its lonesome.

"Where is your person?" He asked, unable to help shifting his weight to scan the room once more, turning over his shoulder to peer out of the window and onto the empty street as well. Sherlock was so busy being curious, in fact, that he nearly missed the shadow shaking its head at him.

"You don't know?"

The shadow shook its head again, and Sherlock pressed his lips into a grim line, voice taking a cautious tone as he hazarded, "You. Haven't got a person?"

He could feel the shadow's eyes on him if he couldn't see them, and it watched him a long moment, taking his measure, before shrugging gracelessly, shoulders slumping in an impression of defeat.

"Oh. I'm sorry." Sherlock intoned gently, at once amazed and intrigued by the unexpected figure. He wasn't sure what manners dictated necessary when someone else's shadow woke you from a dead sleep as it broke into your flat, and confronted you in your living room with a sad tale that you couldn't fully understand.

From what he knew of shadows, they disappeared when their people did, so the man who owned this one couldn't be dead. The shadow _had_ to have a person somewhere, but it seemed oddly disillusioned about the prospect. Sherlock hadn't the foggiest idea what that could mean. He'd heard of lost shadows, wandering shadows, but never shadows without a home.

Probably best to be careful with it, then.

"Would you like some tea?"

The shadow stood a little straighter, as if surprised, and then nodded quickly, tension dropping from its shoulders with relief.

Sherlock nodded back, murmuring, "All right." Before gesturing to the sofa that was now bathed in firelight, "Have a seat, won't you? It'll just be a moment." The shadow jumped around a little in the natural light as it moved to sit, and Sherlock caught a breath in his chest as he realized that it wasn't all flickering flames, but rather that it was limping heavily as it crossed the floor.

It was injured. Did that mean its person was injured? Or had it been wounded independently, somehow? Could it not get back to its person? Questions swirled in Sherlock's brain, but he forced himself to turn, going to fetch two teacups down from the cupboard and drop a teabag into each before chasing them with hot water.

Balancing the cups in his hands was more of a challenge than he'd expected—though god knew, he lived alone and didn't entertain anyone more than Mycroft on a regular basis, and never offered his wretched brother anything so homey as tea—but he managed alright, only slopping a little over his wrist as he set the second cup on the table in front of the shadow.

It couldn't drink it, of course, but Sherlock assumed comforting gestures were just as welcome in this instance as they were with other visitors. He didn't really know, though. He hadn't had a shadow since he was thirteen.

Sherlock's stab in the dark seemed to be a good one as it turned out, the consulting detective only feeling his curiosity grow as the figure slanted ridiculously across the cushions as it leaned forwards to cradle the lines of dark fingers around the mug.

"Excuse me if the question is rude, but. Can you actually feel that?"

The shadow's head turned to him sharply, and it was a moment before he realized that it was quivering with laughter, one hand leaving the mug to give him the distinct impression of dashing a tear of laughter from its eye before nodding enthusiastically. It continued by drawing it's arms around itself in a brief embrace and wiggling fingers that were considerably chubbier from this angle wildly in the air before settling them back on the cup.

"It's warm?" Sherlock guessed, and it nodded again, pleased.

"Ah. Well. I'm glad."

They sat in silence for a long moment, the only movement that of Sherlock's cup as it made its way to him lips once, twice, and then settled on the table next to the shadow's.

"So, why are you here?" He asked finally, peering at what he hoped were the figure's eyes. The shadow paused, reflective, before casting about for something. It clambered to its feet and hobbled around the coffee table, ignoring Sherlock's mewl of protest at its discomfort, getting down onto its hands and knees and placing its hand on the corner of a newspaper poking out from under the armchair opposite, attempting to tug it out from under the leg.

"Let me get that," He offered, feeling somehow oddly embarrassed that the shadow was exerting such effort, even though Sherlock hadn't asked it to. He got up and fetched the paper, reaching around instead of through in a gesture he thought—hoped—was mindfully respectful of the shadow's…personal space.

He spread the paper on the table, flat, and watched as the shadow made a careful gesture, turning the pages until soot black fingers touched the back of his hand softly to stop him. It surprised Sherlock to realize that he could feel its touch, not physically but mentally, the same sensation as disembodied eyes following him, only warm instead of eerie.

Those same smoky fingers moved, tapping the headline of an article that read, _'War Criminal Harrison DeMasque Caught and Detained in London Today, After a Flight 'Round the World'_, its face turning silently towards him before touching fingers to the middle of Sherlock's chest.

It was the case he'd solved just that day—or yesterday, he supposed, by the clock—and he found his eyes widening at the knowledge that this shadow had been there while he did his work, skulking in the darkness as he assisted Mycroft's secret service in capturing DeMasque. The man had been wanted for the artless and bloody murder of injured soldiers on the field in Afghanistan, and even half-mad had tried to justify his actions by claiming they were all for the grave anyway. He'd only been easing their pain. He was a coward, and a poor excuse for a murderer, and Sherlock had been perfectly happy to see him put away, even if he hadn't been keen on taking the case from his brother originally.

It had been a case of needs must, and this shadow had to have seen it all happen, to know that he was involved. Had followed him home, from where it had been stalking a killer, and then snuck into his room. Sherlock started and pulled back away from the fingers instinctually, even knowing that they couldn't hurt him, reeling with the possibilities.

The shadow froze and pulled its hand back slowly, oozing despair from every line. It sat back down, and its hands fell into its lap, head listing forward at an odd angle.

"You aren't DeMasque's shadow." It was a statement, not a question, but Sherlock's heart stuttered in his chest anyway. It was the right build for it, but no, it wasn't tall enough, and the hair wasn't right…

The shadow shook its head violently, bristling, and Sherlock nodded. "Good. Good. But you were following him, weren't you? For how long?" His eyes watched sharply as the shadow leaned over again to the newspaper, resting a finger on the word _'Afghanistan'_ in the description of the man's crimes.

"Across the dessert? Really. And you weren't spotted?"

It shook its head again, gesturing with its free hand in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom, driving its point home. Sherlock nodded. "You're careful. Of course. So you were a soldier, then?"

In a flash dark hands smudged the shoulders of his dressing gown, mental pressure gripping him as the shadow nodded manically. It released him to throw arms in the air, flailing here and there, one driving into its chest as it slumped against the sofa bonelessly, only resting a moment before springing back to attention, making another vague gesture against its forehead, and then throwing a hand through the air in an arc that Sherlock could deduce to mean _'aeroplane'_. The rest of the jumble made little to no sense to him at all.

"Ah. I apologize. But I can't actually _see_ your hands. I'm afraid I've lost your meaning." The shadow shifted in agitation before going through the motions again, much more slowly, and more ridiculously exaggerated, while Sherlock frowned and gleaned everything he could.

"You fought with DeMasque in Afghanistan." He managed the first bit, bolstered as the figure nodded, touching his knee in encouragement to continue. "You…" The second time it had traced a shape on the table for clarity, "Were with the Red Cross? No. A medic. Army medic, and there was a firefight." It nodded again, more quickly.

"He shot you, in the chest." This time the shadow shook its head, touching a spot in the cradle of Sherlock's left shoulder. "Oh, just there. I see. But, I don't understand." Sherlock's brow furrowed, and his lips pressed into a grimace. "He disappeared from Afghanistan. For all intents and purposes vanished—he was a very clever sneak. And he was shooting _wounded_ soldiers—"

Sherlock gasped softly. "_Oh_, an army medic. You caught him red handed, didn't you, and so he shot you. Didn't think you'd make it out alive, you being the medic and all. Sloppier than I thought he was.

"You followed him to keep an eye on him when he ran—I wouldn't be surprised if the shock of a wound like that unsealed you, really—and in doing so you lost your person. You were there when he was arrested, you know that I'm a detective, and you thought that I could help you find him."

The movement was so fast that there wasn't any dodging it, just suddenly a shadow wrapped around him light as smoke, the mental squeeze more of an embrace than he'd had in years. Most didn't dare touch him, lat alone think to take him in their arms. The shadow man didn't know any better, but somehow Sherlock wasn't displeased. In fact, he was a little proud. The deductions were leaps, certainly, fancifully beyond his usual standards, but correct nonetheless, and the shadow seemed proud of him, too.

Proud enough to wrap him up in a surprisingly solid hug.

He basked a little in the unworded praise before deciding aloud, "I'll help you, of course. It shouldn't be difficult. Few people notice things like missing shadows, oddly, it probably won't be marked on your person's medical reports, but it will be as easy as isolating the incident in Afghanistan and following the paper trail. I'm certain you could have done it yourself, if you were able to shift bigger things."

He found himself smiling a little, coyly, and fancied himself that the shadow smiled back.

"We'll begin first thing in the morning."

The shadow leaned back, only touching his cheek briefly in further thanks before drawing away entirely against the sofa. Thinking about it, it probably wasn't very appropriate for the figure to touch him, it was not his shadow, after all. Probably considered infidelity of some sort or another.

Sherlock brushed the thought off. If it didn't mind, he was hardly about to.

"Ah, well. I. Should sleep a few more hours I'm afraid. Catching DeMasque was tiring if not taxing, and even if tomorrow's work won't be difficult, I should be alert for it." Sherlock stood, glancing at their teacups before deciding that he could tidy them another time—if Mrs. Hudson hadn't done the washing up for him by the time he'd found the shadow's person, that was—before moving to the fireplace, halting there a moment, uncertain. "You're welcome to stay, if you wish. I suppose you haven't anywhere else to go. You may have the sofa—but you don't sleep, that's probably odd, isn't it?"

The shadow nodded, shoulders shaking a little in laughter as it rose crookedly on its wounded leg, spraying from the sofa to darken the wall behind as well.

"In that case, you may do whatever you wish. Make yourself at home, I suppose. Do you mind if I bank the fire?" It seemed only polite to ask, considering the fact that the light gave the shadow shape. It shook it's head though, and Sherlock had crouched to tend to it before an upraised hand stopped him, the shadow drawing his attention and then shifting on its feet before gesturing tentatively to the bedroom.

"You. Want to be in there with me?" The idea shouldn't have puzzled him. Shadows were attached emotionally to their people in theory, even if Sherlock's hadn't been, and this one had gone months without one, doggedly following his person's shooter instead of seeking companionship. It was probably quite lonely.

"I suppose so. It can't do any harm, certainly." He decided aloud.

Tension bled from his newest—and by far oddest—client in a way that he couldn't properly quantify but knew immediately.

He finished banking the fire and moved to the bedroom, shadow following like a ghost at his heels as he hung up his robe and toed off his slippers, sliding back between his sheets with nary a pause. "Would you like the light on?" He murmured murkily—he really was exhausted, it had been more than a week since he'd last gotten a run of sleep longer than a few hours—but the shadow shook his head against the door in the moonlight before trudging over to the chair under the window and perching straight-backed atop Sherlock's trousers.

"All right, then." Sherlock yawned. "Goodnight."

The shadow tilted his head almost fondly in acknowledgment.

Sleep claimed Sherlock, and he dreamt once more of the sea.

* * *

The light of mid morning was bright through the open window, admitting the general hubbub of London into his bedroom as well, but Sherlock barely had time to blearily note it before the shadow crossed his face, its hand protecting his eyes from the bright glare of sun.

"Thank you," He managed, voice dark with sleep as he threw the covers off and shuffled to his feet, the shadow standing to move away from him as he crossed to close the window. "I'll just get ready and then we'll begin, yes?" The dark figure had moved to stand next to Sherlock's bed, and it nodded, standing still as a statue a moment before hobbling to the door and slipping silently underneath.

Oh. Sherlock hadn't known it could do that.

But then, unfettered, why couldn't it? It made a sort of sense.

Sherlock went about his morning routine without seeing the shadow again, showering, dressing, and making tea before its presence reestablished itself at his shoulder, quiet and unmistakably friendly.

"Hello." Sherlock intoned, more for the shadow's sake than his own. "Ready to get to work?" He scooped up his laptop from the desk and settled on the couch with it, booting it in an impatient whir of fans. Sherlock checked to see that the shadow was standing behind the couch where it could see before beginning, and it leaned to peer over his shoulder in odd angles with its right hand on Sherlock's left shoulder. "Let me know if you see anything that piques your interest."

It squeezed his shoulder, and he was off.

The shadow felt cooler against him in the light of day than it had at night, hardly surprising, but still a little odd as he worked. It was perfectly comfortable, however, and he'd skimmed through most of Mycroft's case files on DeMasque before the shadow moved, trying to point at something on the screen but defeated by the harsh light of the computer which bled its fingers away to nothing, casting darkness over Sherlock's chest and lap instead. He scanned the information and made a guess.

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers? Your unit?"

The shadow nodded grimly, and Sherlock clicked open an internet browser, taking a few quiet moments to find the army registry and log in using information that was decidedly Mycroft's. The shadow pinched his shoulder to get his attention, and when he looked its shoulders were shaking with laughter even as it shook its head. Sherlock couldn't help smiling.

"Waste not, want not." He sang, and the hand patted him companionably.

There was more quiet as he scanned the registry, clicking his way through pages of useless names before a flurry of dancing light and dark in the corner of his eye stopped him, an agitated motion. "Markus Wright?" He asked, and knew it was wrong before he finished, twisting his mouth into a frown and reading the next few names before deciding hesitantly from the angle of the shadow's wrist, "Captain John Watson?"

Sherlock was clapped emphatically on the shoulder and he couldn't help a self assured smile, wicked on his face as he murmured, "Handsome man."

The shadow flicked him soundly in the ear, and Sherlock chuckled.

"We should be able to find him, not a worry. Have a seat in the chair," Sherlock gestured for it to sit though it seemed perfectly comfortable on the wounded leg standing—a shadow with a psychosomatic limp, how perfectly _strange_—knowing the next bit would be a slog through information, and likely some deceiving, neither of which he needed the shadow to see.

It hesitated a moment, but then limped to the chair, settling contentedly.

Sherlock wasn't sure why, but it seemed to trust him. Perhaps as a man with no shadow it thought he understood its troubles, and therefore assumed he would be the perfect man to help.

He was the perfect man to help, but shadowlessness had very little to do with it.

As if reading his mind, the shadow lifted a hand, getting his attention over the top of his computer before leaning so that its arm slanted ungodly long across the floor, touching the edge of Sherlock's shoe almost reverently and then cocking its head. Of course it would be something that a shadow would notice, and be concerned about.

"It left me." He answered brusquely. "Quite some time ago, now. I was a young man at the time. I hardly even notice it's gone, anymore."

Which was not strictly speaking true. Not with this amiable shadow perched in his sitting room.

He'd never begrudged his shadow its freedom, and he was hardly about to start, but he had to admit that it was something the world at large had that he was lacking—one of many things, granted—and for all his genius and lack of social graces, he found that he might not have minded being regular in that respect.

It was almost like having a friend, he thought. Almost.

"It's nothing to concern yourself about." He added, turning away only to be forced to turn back, the shadow walking two fingers across the floor from his seat and then pressing a hand to his brow at a right angle.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I haven't looked for it. It really doesn't concern me."

But the shadow was stubborn; it's chin drooping into its chest for a moment before it straightened, bending an elbow to point at itself.

Sherlock smiled a ghost of a smile, and murmured, "No, thank you. I think it's having more fun wherever it's got off to, and you needn't find something for me in return for this." He gestured to the research on his screen vaguely, before adding almost as an afterthought, "But I appreciate the gesture."

The shadow shifted at an odd angle in the chair, somehow managing to look scandalized and chastising both in only a mess of dark lines and angles. Sherlock chuckled at its frustration with him, but went back to his work, and the shadow didn't interrupt again.

It was late afternoon and six cups of tea later—five for Sherlock, and one for the shadow—before he'd gotten the answer he needed by way of email, having contacted an army nurse by the name of William Murray.

He'd claimed in his missive to have been a friend of Captain Watson's (which wasn't entirely false, he _was_ an acquaintance of the man's shadow) and asked circumspectly if Murray knew where the man had gotten to, only just having found out that he'd been shot (also true). It may have not made the impression of Sherlock being an excellent friend, but he probably wasn't. He didn't know, he'd never tried.

The answer was tense, and it became very apparent why as he read on, Sherlock's shoulders tensing as he swallowed convulsively. It appeared that John had not been doing well, and that as far as Bill knew he was still not doing well, but that he had been transferred long ago to a hospital in London which surprisingly enough, Sherlock knew far too much about.

The shadow leaned forward as he typed his thank you response—his character as Captain Watson's friend far politer than Sherlock usually bothered to be—but Sherlock was sure to snap his computer closed as the figure got its feet under it, not missing the suspicious glance it shot between him and the computer as Sherlock went for his coat.

"He's in hospital." He said out loud, "St. Bartholomew's. I have acquaintances there, visiting shouldn't be an overly-arduous matter."

The shadow stood in the middle of the floor, probably sensing that something was off, but Sherlock just slipped into his coat, checking the folds of his pockets for wallet, keys, and mobile, before opening the door.

"Coming?"

He didn't let the discomforting uncertainty show on his face until he'd already turned away, feeling the shadow at his back as he tromped down the stairs and out onto the street to hail a cab.

The ride was absolutely silent, and though the shadow sat close by his side it didn't touch him, staring at him instead with its unblinking eyes and making Sherlock feel even more ill at ease than he had previously. He refused to react, not one who was wont to crack under pressure, and when they finally arrived at the hospital Sherlock paid the cabbie without a word of thanks and went in through the morgue to sneak up the back stairs.

The shadow followed right on his heels, as a proper shadow should, only displaying agitated concern in the too-frequent twist of it's neck as it looked everywhere for its person. Sherlock ignored it purposefully—both not wanting to give anything away and not wanting to be detected—though it was difficult, and when he found a nurse's station he stopped with a dazzling smile to flirt before mentioning he was there to visit John Watson and getting the proper room number.

He noticed the shadow shaking its head at him in vague amusement in spite of everything, and Sherlock smiled a little before they both swept off to find the shadow's man once and for all.

The room was not a private one, though it might as well have been for the silence of it when Sherlock entered. There was a man, eighty-three, with coffee-coloured skin, a cat, no family, and retired from a career as an insurance broker in the first bed, and Sherlock edged by his sleeping form and around the privacy curtain before finding a man that looked, albeit vaguely, like the picture of Captain Watson on his computer.

The heart rate monitor beeped obscenely steadily in the corner, but John Watson hardly looked alive. He was pallid and gaunt, with wires bristling from his arm in numbers that, while surely rivaled, were not a reassuring presence. His army tan was sallow but still coloured his skin, and his hospital gown looked nowhere near as unkempt as the regulation haircut that had been let to grow out across his forehead and cheeks. Someone had shaved him, fortunately, but that seemed to be as far as courtesy extended.

Sherlock traipsed forward, unhooking Captain—Doctor Watson's chart from the foot of the bed, humming over it a minute before concluding that it was as Bill Murray had said in his email: the man was comatose, and had been since he was shot. The staff was dutiful, but not hopeful that he would regain consciousness, it was all in the hurried slop of ink across the page.

Sherlock put the chart away and his eyes flicked up again to the face in the bed before sliding sideways to the shadow.

It was standing just past the privacy curtain, frozen where it had come in. No lack of expression could hide its shock, or its sorrow, or the posture that screamed, _'Let this not be happening to me.'_. Sherlock murmured, "A coma, I'm afraid. No telling if he'll wake. But the bullet wound has healed, and there's no brain damage." And only then did the shadow move, taking a step, halting, and then throwing itself into the bed in a blur of grey to attach itself to Captain Watson's side.

It really was a shame. His face was lined, but they were lines that spoke of kindness and compassion, worry lines, laugh lines, and though he was gravely ill he _was_ a handsome man. Sherlock imagined that awake he would be the sort of person that it was impossible not to laugh with, and was saddened that he would never have the opportunity to truly meet him.

The shadow had curled into the place it naturally fell, curled around and half beneath John Watson's still form, attached neatly at the feet so that only a barely perceptible quiver displayed its bereavement.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock offered, shoulders slumped. He had hoped it would be a happy reunion and a simple matter when he'd decided to help. It didn't seem right for them to remain in a hospital bed for as long as it took the man to recover. Or until they both faded to nothing.

The shadow stretched, but otherwise gave no response, and Sherlock found a plastic chair to pull by the doctor's bedside, settling in for a reason he couldn't quite put name to. It wasn't his bedside to sit by, but he felt as if he should, so he did.

Hours passed quietly, and it wasn't until a nurse checked on Doctor Watson in the early evening that Sherlock was discovered, a squawk of surprise startling him—but not more than he had startled the nurse.

"What in God's name are you doing here? You aren't allowed to be here!"

Sherlock eyed the woman warily and snipped, "I was just leaving." Standing—unfortunately decided—to touch both the man and shadow's hands with long fingers by way of goodbye before sweeping out of the room.

A stormy mood hovered over him all the way out of the hospital and onto the street, and he shook his head in an attempt to dispel it as he tried to hail a cab. He knew that it was irritation at a case poorly finished, though he'd had no control over the regrettable end. It seemed as if maybe he should have, and knowing better changed nothing.

It didn't help that there was so much more he could have learned from the shadow, and he was reluctant to admit to himself that he'd let the opportunity get away. Certainly that was what was bothering him, a fact of which he had almost convinced himself when he was distracted by a smudge of dark falling rakishly across his path.

It was unmistakably Captain Watson's shadow, standing at an oddly long angle across the pavement, and crossed in front of him as if to bar him from the street. It shifted its gangly arm, and Sherlock felt the touch on his wrist lightly before he drew back. "Did you forget something?" He asked, matter of fact.

Some last wisdom it had meant to impart, perhaps.

It nodded carefully, and then wrapped its ridiculous arms around him; Sherlock's second such shadowy embrace in as many days. He wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve it, or what it was meant to mean, but he stayed and enjoyed it until the shadow pulled away.

"All right, well. I'll be going then." Sherlock took a deep breath and stepped nearer the kerb, the shadow stepping with him unexpectedly, drawing his attention. It raised an arm in a half-aborted gesture and, squaring its shoulders, stepped into him, their feet meeting on the ground in a mess that was indecipherable one from another.

Sherlock shifted, and the shadow shifted with him, their legs moving in tandem though his were far longer that Watson's. The shadow was not only too short for him but easily too muscled, not to mention the shorter hair, and yet it dogged him as he moved across the pavement, mirroring his every move.

"What—" He gasped, "What are you doing?"

The shadow's hand swept Sherlock's up in an incongruous movement, and before he could point out that that seemed rather contrary to the point it was making, it had pressed the back of his hand to its lips, thoughtfully. Sherlock stilled.

He'd never felt anything quite like it, physical or not. Warm and affectionate, and somehow important.

"You don't belong to me." He said, as if the shadow didn't know it. It only looked at him and then nodded, slowly. "He could still wake up." Sherlock tried, and it nodded again. "And yet. You still want to come with me?" The shadow nodded once more and squeezed his hand. "Are you sure?"

He could feel the shadow's smile as it settled, content.

"All right." Even he almost didn't hear the words as they slipped from his lips, awed.

He turned tentatively, and the dark form on the pavement pivoted with him, still radiating a pleased sort of affection. Sherlock took one step, and another, and another, staring at his feet as if he expected the shadow to fall away—and he did, a bit—but it stayed with him as if it were his own, following him perfectly as he began the long walk from St. Bart's to Baker Street. It followed him through the warren of London streets, it followed him through the shuffle of crowds, it followed him through the park, and up the steps. It followed him into the living room, and when he settled on the couch it did too, cradled happily between him and the cushions.

And Sherlock found that he'd never quite been so pleased with anything in his whole life.

It wasn't until late that evening, with the shadow curled up against his shoulder in the firelight and the tin box open on his lap that he asked again, "Are you sure?" Sherlock couldn't help eyeing his new companion warily, still waiting for the expected disconnect.

The only answer he got was the shadow's blunt dark fingers meeting his on the needle as he lifted one foot across his knee and then the other, and sewed their soles together.

* * *

A week later Sherlock was plodding home from a case (no worse for wear despite being threatened with a long knife) when he passed a flower shop along his route.

He couldn't have said what possessed him to go inside—or maybe he could have, come to think of it—but after wandering about in a decidedly suspect hunchbacked skulk, he found what he was looking for and in short order he was writing out a card to go with an unusual hand-picked bouquet. The note read simply, _'Thank you for watching my back. I promise I'll return the favor, when you need it. –SH'_.

The next day the flowers and card were sitting by John Watson's bedside, watching over him in his sleep.

They continued to visit, Sherlock and the shadow, and the nurses stopped minding so much when the pair materialized at strange hours without anyone having set eyes on them. It turned out to be a perfectly good place to think, that hospital room, with the man in the next bed snoring softly and the shadow falling halfway across the bed between Sherlock and John. But no matter how fervently Sherlock considered it, not once in all those minutes by John's bedside did he ever figure out how to truly express the bond he felt with the comatose doctor.

Something about John Watson was loyal, something about John Watson was kind, something about John Watson was normal, and something about John Watson made Sherlock happy. That the thing was his shadow didn't seem to matter.

It was wonderful all the same.

And Sherlock found for all of his disillusionment in the world around him, that he was certain One day he would have the opportunity to thank John Watson for his gift properly, in person.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock felt whole.


End file.
